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The following memories come from Jim Dale in Scotland

1 :: A very thin shoestring

This is the tale of how one cash strapped  individual contrived to go motor cycle racing, hence the title.
Bill was a self employed married joiner with two very young children and a supportive  and understanding wife in Marion, without whose patience and management of their finances, he would never have made it to the starting line.

Starting at the end of his racing career, I witnessed the hysteria in the B.M. fan club, when he crossed the TT race finishing line, 27th out of 30 finishers. Why all the excitement?
Bill had competed in the amateur TT, the MGP held in September, six times. Competed yes, with unfailing humour in the face of adversity, but finished a race no.
Something always seemed to snap or split. He never as far as I know fell off but he was getting older and desperate for a finish when lo and behold his entry for the 250c.c. TT was accepted for June 197?(I’ve forgotten the exact year. Does it matter?

Many hours were spent selecting the best of the secondhand parts for his Yamaha , one of the air cooled models, a bit of a rarity by then, as most TT mounts were the newer liquid cooled models.
I saw the arrival of “Team B.M” at the Ardrossan ferry, and was impressed by their vanless transport system. The Yamaha had been unscrewed into large pieces, brought to the ferry by a pal with a van, and was now carried on as hand luggage in a series of trips up and down the gangway, under the suspicious eye of the purser. Each part bore a large label  boldly proclaiming them all to be “motor cycle spare parts” neatly getting round the question of actually paying a fare for the bike.
Reverse the process on arrival at Douglas, wheel and fork fitting on the quay side, making a rolling chassis, push able at least. Members of  their land lady’s family had  appeared with a car, and the “other bits” ie engine +spare, petrol tank, fairing, tools, helmet and leathers, wearing clothes, were all transported to the digs. A local newspaper deliverer, stopped his van and delivered the rolling chassis in style.This was typical of the generosity of the local people, as was the free use of a well used Honda 125 for getting about during the week.


Bill duly qualified in practise, well down the field, but his time spent at the MGP stood him in good stead,  as a 37mile circuit takes some time to memorise. His spare engine had gone really well in qualifying, so without touching a thing it was left in place, allowing Bill to sell his other engine to a Welsh chap who had suffered a huge blow up. They could now pay their digs and eat!

In the race itself, Bill made no attempt to wring the last rev out of the Yamaha, keeping her just within the power band and tried to enjoy what would have to be his I.O.M. swansong. He let faster men sweep past,  knowing that the motor under him had vastly exceeded the hours at racing speed recommended  by Yamaha. Round Governor’s Bridge for the last time and the finish so close. The engine stammered briefly, then picked up and propelled Roy to the flag, where it died again, not a drop of petrol left in the tank! A truly emotional scene followed. Bill had climbed his Everest, and as willing hands steadied the little Yamaha, as soon as his helmet was off he and his wife were locked in a hug and her tears of joy for her man just flowed unashamedly. There was a party that night in the Legion, I think I remember it well.

 Another anecdote recalls an occasion Bill decided to go racing in Northern Ireland. I think I was partly to blame here, for I had pointed out to him that there existed a great number of races within a 50 mile radius of Larne, the friendly hospitality was amazing, and some of the circuits offered petrol money to and from the ferry to try and attract  more competitors from Scotland and England. This was the clincher for Bill, and he and another non racing helper called Bob duly set off in a borrowed van.
The ferry was reached OK, and the competitor discount claimed and given, the sea was calm, the sun shone, what could go wrong?

Rolling off at Larne a problem surfaced. Briefly, Roy had no money, depending on Bob to put enough petrol in the van to get to the circuit where he would claim his petrol money. A fine strategy except that Bob had no money either. There was a can in the back with two stroke fuel for the bike, but when Bob suggested this be used  he was met with a big “No” The reason, the petrol contained a very carefully measure of  an expensive synthetic racing oil. So time was going on and decisions had to be made.

10 minutes later the van was back on the ferry,  a different mood was evident on the homeward crossing. Slightly strained would describe it.
A couple of gallons were scrounged in Stranraer, and a friend of Bob’s robbed his lawn mower can in Girvan to get them home. So ended the quest for Irish glory, the subject of money was avoided between the pair for some time.  

The Bike that Clicked

When  my friend Ian was given a BSA C10, and (wise man) wisely turned down the offer of  two running (alongside if you were fit) BSA Dandies from the same pervert, life took on an interesting phase while he got to grips with his 250cc sidevalve superbike. I had not long parted with an Indian Brave, also a 250cc sidevalve. Gutless it was, I’ve read somewhere of a sidecar being fitted. Ye gods---

Anyway the C10 chuffed away and like an old fashioned belt drive clicked when the fastener came round. But hold on, by 1953 even BSA had eliminated belt drive in favour of chain, so think again. For all the pedantisists out there, yes Triumph (part of the BSA group) used belt drive on the Tina scooter, but that was of the non fastener kind and doesn’t count.

“Wee end bush” was our joint decision, and so the head and barrel were lifted, with the bike in the kitchen, engine on a suitably covered kitchen table, Ian’s wife Agnes in the pub with some pals. The wee end was fine, but we were taken aback at the rivet and fishplate repair done on the connecting rod. The rivets had slackened, hence the clicking noise. The repair had been carefully done and Ian gave the clue when he recalled that the
owner previous to himself was an inspector in Rolls Royce.

I was due to fly to London the next day with RR jet power, and was glad that no connecting rods were involved. A replacement flywheel assembly was fitted, as well as a new head gasket, made out of a rubber asbestos material, the theory being that as the rubber burned away it would leave the asbestos behind. A quick tightening of the cylinder head nuts was all that remained to be done.

1 :: A very thin shoestring & The Bike that clicked
2 :: He who waits & Travels with a sidecar
3 :: It'll have to GO !

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